


Was It Worth It?

by privatemumbles



Category: Dead Cells (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, If u squint and or want it can be considered beheaded/collector, god i dont know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23106607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/privatemumbles/pseuds/privatemumbles
Summary: The Collector muses on his and the Beheadeds past lives and actions, and wonders if the King is really still in there.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 58





	Was It Worth It?

The King was a beacon for everyone on the island to look up to. It's no wonder once he turned on the people it was a hard pill for most to swallow.

But not for the Alchemist.

The Collector watched the door silently, tending to his notes about the Beheadeds progress. At the start of the "runs" he'd been quick to avoid most of the monsters that entered his path but as time progressed he became more and more skilled. Bounteous amounts of Cells deposited into the Collectors vials and containers for further use. At least until he died and his essence returned back to the waterways.

The cycle was easy to become lost in. Things rarely changed and if they did it was only to become more dangerous then ever. Perilous for everyone but the beheaded but the Collector had accepted this as part of how he was to complete his research.

But as with any experiment, there were... complications. The Collector initially kept his one sided conversations with the Beheaded to a minimum, not wanting to arouse suspicion of the plan. The plan of the Alchemist and the King. He rubbed at the raw skin under his manacles, muttering under his breath about keys lost down sewer drains and notes ruined by time and infiltrators. The Collector had long learned to no longer leave his stations to chance. While it didn't matter if his old notes were gone, if anyone ever caught wind of what he had on him, what ruin would that bring?

And what would the King do to him?

The King. The goddamned King. The Collector remembered the days spent in the Kings servitude all too well, the sleepless nights and experiments gone wrong, the overwhelming hate coming from all sides. The Trio of practical gods on the island looking down on him as he rushed to find a cure. While the Time Keeper was at least cooperative, he knew she was too caught up in her own affairs to give him much notice. And that gap in her attention was enough for the King to convince the Alchemist to use it to their advantage.

Effectively immortal and with all the time in the world to gather the resources to make a cure? Even if the Cell Panacea was a bust, the Alchemist and the King would be able to have something, some day. That's what the King said to him, stark raving mad and sick to the bone with the Malaise. Only he and the King knew, of course. The High Peak Castle was Malaise Free, they promised the guards and aristocrats, as they tossed out any signs of sickness into the sea. The King battered him with words and the Hands fists, promising the Alchemist nothing but ruin if he did not work harder. The Alchemist struggled, his half attempts at saving the nearly dead in vain, the cure to death itself granted only to those already dying.

Until it wasn't. The Alchemist pushed those days out of his mind best he could, and the Collector outright refused to speak about them. Not that he could, to anyone. The slimey green vegetative substance leaking out of the Kings pores and slipping out of his hands and down the drain. to find a proper host. The Hand bursting the door down into splinters, seeing his King catatonic and un-moving on the ground, and the Alchemists hands covered in green and blood. He almost didn't blame the Hand for throwing him into prison, one of the last carts sent to the depths before communication on the island stopped entirely.

Yes, the King. The Hand of the King. Boogeymen larger then life dancing in the back of the Collectors mind when he looked into the Beheadeds glowing center like a star. He could see them demanding more from him and the bruises covering his blue skin. Fading in and out of consciousness desperate for an answer.

And then he blinks, and the Beheaded is waving a pale hand in front of his face. The Beheaded never asked for anything. He of course knew who the Beheaded truly was, what he was capable of. He knew that the King was in there, and was acting. He could not forget the things the King did to him or all the citizens of the kingdom.

And then the Beheaded would laugh, undead shoulders hunched, at one of the little biters falling on its back. He would place it back on its proper side, he would act foolish, he would react in ways the Collector never thought possible for the hardened king to. 

He hoped desperately in his cold black heart maybe the King was Dead. Maybe the Beheaded was someone else, someone better, someone new. Was it treason? Perhaps. Did he wish for it to be true, that the Beheaded was just the result of something awful, but could be good despite his anger and lust for blood? Maybe he could be more than the King ever was.

Maybe all that pain wasn't for nothing after all.


End file.
